Chapter 11
Tigre and the others found the judge’s stash of wine, and, for a time, bottles clinked and the wood fire snapped amid the bawdy songs and filthy jokes. The men laughed and farted, raising their voices when they got to the most explicit punchlines so the women inside could hear what was in store for them. Alcohol and the post adrenaline crash from a day of kidnapping and watching two of their compatriots be shot to death, eventually pushed them into deep snoring sleep.
Bo and Alma sat awake in the darkness of the little house, huddled as close as possible against the chill. The cold tile floor sent a sickening ache through the bones in Bo’s hips, but the throbbing pain in his tooth made everything else feel insignificant. Alma, whose hands were cuffed in front of her, did her best to tend to him, administering a few precious drops of clove oil every few minutes. The cold, or maybe it was the nerves, caused her to shiver uncontrollably and she had to brace her body against his to keep from spilling the entire bottle every time.
Steven and Eva leaned together, backs to the wall, in and out of fitful sleep. Matt’s head lolled to his chest, mouth open, drooling.
“I’m not worth any ransom,” Alma blinked back tears. “My father can’t even afford to replace his old pickup truck.”
“Shhh,” Bo said, snuggling closer, fighting the urge to curse at his shackled hands. “We’ll figure something out before then.”
“Maybe things always work out happily ever after in your world,” Alma snapped. “But I have seen too many times they do not.”
“Me too,” Bo whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Alma said. “It is stupid to attack the only friend I have. You must have led a very dangerous life.”
“Not really,” he said.
“Well,” Alma said. “Your ‘not really’ gave you some cruel scars.”
Bo forced a smile. “They’re worse than they look.”
“Perhaps,” she said, sounding far away. “My youth was dull. The most adventure I ever had in Valparaíso was sneaking out at night to go dancing.” She sniffed, wiping away a tear. “Dull does not sound so bad at the moment.”
“Help is on the way,” Bo said. “My brother’s not the type to wait around to make a plan. In the meantime, we need to look around for something to get out of these cuffs—a paperclip, something like that.”
Alma sighed. “I can appreciate your optimism, but does this look like the kind of place where we could find a paperclip?”
“A hairpin, then,” Bo said, refusing to let Alma slide into complete despair. “You’ve seen the judge. I imagine her to be a slave to fashion, even out here among the cattle.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But even if you’re able to pick the locks, what then? We are half naked in the middle of nowhere.”
“To be honest,” Bo said, “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes alone with The Flea.”
“I am not afraid to die,” Alma said. “But the thought of dying among these animals—”
The scrape of a shoe on tile caused her to stop and turn toward the door.
Bo sat up straighter, peering into the darkness.
“How are we doing?” It was The Flea’s croaky voice. Rather than wait for an answer, he strode across the room and planted a boot in Bo’s side, driving the wind from his lungs and cracking at least two ribs.
Bo rolled with the blow, doubling up for the next kick—because guys like The Flea were never content kicking you only once. He coughed and groaned, but refused to cry out.
La Pulga stopped once he judged Bo to be sufficiently tenderized, leaning against the wall on one hand. Panting from his efforts, he looked down at Alma and grinned.
“Are you cold, little one?” he asked, as if he genuinely cared. He squatted down beside her, speaking English, as if he wanted Bo to understand every word. “I know what would make you warm.” His put a hand on her thigh, just above her knee. “Your passport says you are from Chile, so you might not be familiar with the interrogation methods formerly used by our military here in this country.”
“Hey!” Bo grunted. He tried to pull himself into a seated position, but earned another swift kick from The Flea.
“Now,” La Pulga said, settling down beside Alma again. “I was telling you about the military methods. I think your country used the parrilla to warm prisoners up on old bedsprings with a bit of electric current. I suppose it was effective enough, but somewhat . . . hands-off if you ask me. I prefer the more personal touch of the cattle prod.” His hand began to inch upward inside Alma’s bare thigh. “They say it smells like bacon cooking . . . Such a shame to burn this precious flesh.” His voice grew huskier with every word. “But some measures are necessary—”
Alma drew her knees together, trapping The Flea’s hand long enough to launch herself forward and drive her forehead into his nose. He recoiled, doubled his fist to hit her, but Bo wheeled on his hips and reared back with both feet, planting them into the man’s unprotected groin. The Flea fell backward, out of Bo’s reach, but Alma got down, pummeling him in the neck and head with her powerful legs. Bo rolled quickly, intent on getting a leg wrapped around the man’s neck and choking the life out of him.
Unfortunately, Jelly came in and grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him back across the tile to the wall. The muscular kidnapper gave him a half-hearted swat to the side of the head, but it was apparent he probably wanted to kick La Pulga as well, so there was no force in it.
The Flea clamored to his feet, one hand to his bleeding nose, the other clutching his groin.
Jelly raised both hands and rattled off a string of what sounded like accusatory Spanish. The Flea gave an insolent shrug, and then muttered a few halfhearted words. Jelly stood for a long moment with his arms crossed, as if considering what to do. At length, he shook his head and went out to rouse the sleeping men.
Alone again with his victims, The Flea licked the blood from his upper lip, and squatted down beside Alma again, staying just out of her reach.
“Do not worry, my sweet,” he said, congested from his broken nose. “This place has no electricity, but we will soon be someplace with more . . . how do you say it? Creature comforts. Anticipation is half the fun. No?”
He ventured forward to pat her on the knee again, and then stood before she could react. Bo jumped forward, rattling his handcuffs, causing him to recoil for fear of another attack.
La Pulga stopped cold, a crooked smile spreading over his face.
“You find yourself amusing?” he said. “Let us see how amusing you are when Jelly is not here to protect you.”
He went out the front door, leaving the prisoners alone again.
They were all awake now, staring at Bo and Alma.
Matt’s glare was enough to cut through the shadows. “You’re going to get us all killed,” he said.
“It’s not their fault.” Steven leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I really thought my dad would get something rolling by now.”
Matt turned his glare toward Eva. “What about your dad?” He asked. “He got enough firepower—”
“Shut up!” Steven snapped. “So help me, Matt, I’ll kill you myself if you don’t—”
“If I don’t what?” Matt said. “Lay back and die like a good friend? I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay alive. You can take that to the bank.”
Eva sighed. “They’ll find out soon enough,” she said. “Maybe I can save the rest of you.”
“That’s not the way these guys think,” Bo said. “We keep quiet and let them find out on their own. That gives people time to mount a rescue operation.”
“We’ll see,” Matt said. “But I’m not waiting to get shot in the head.”
Bo turned to Alma. Matt was going to do what he was going to do. He leaned closer. “What did Jelly say when he came in?”
“He yelled at La Pulga for taking liberties,” Alma said. “And reminded him of the judge’s order. Then he said the judge is working out the money details and that she’s not coming back until sometime tomorrow morning. She’s supposed to be bringing an ice chest and enough food for a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?”
“That’s what Jelly said.”
Bo sighed, thinking. “La Pulga seems to think we’ll be at a place with electricity soon.”
Alma shivered. “You think they’re moving us?”
“I do,” Bo said. “And I don’t think Jelly knows.”
* * *
Angelica Medina pushed away from her the laptop and tapped long manicured fingernails on the polished wood beside her keyboard. Her red silk dressing gown flowed down either side of the squeaky office chair where she’d slipped it off her shoulders. The hotel room across the Tancredo Neves Bridge over the Iguazú River in Brazil was cramped and hot but Richter surely had people watching their home in Argentina. Angelica said it did not matter. They could log into their cloaked accounts from anywhere. According to her, the move to a different network would only make them more secure.
The kidnappings had been planned on a whim and she was still in the process of working out the method for Grey to pay the ransom. Justino was not stupid. He understood finance and banking—even the illicit kind. He and Angelica often used offshore banks to hold their proceeds from the illegal adoptions they arranged. The government was hot and cold regarding investigation and prosecution, but a sitting judicial officer could not afford to be found with an overly healthy bank account in the event some enthusiastic prosecutor decided to go snooping. As an attorney, Justino had set up the offshore accounts. But when Angelica started talking about ransoms of Bit-coin and other cryptocurrency, it all went over his head.
The killings at the camp had rattled Justino. Angelica had handed down harsh sentences, but she’d never killed anyone, so far as he knew. He didn’t know what to say to her, so he said nothing, sitting across the room instead, watching and waiting to be told what to do.
A small fan at the corner of the desk oscillated back and forth, caressing her bare shoulders and jostling her hair with every pass. Had Justino not been so terrified, it would have been sexy.
Angelica stared at the monitor for a long moment, then closed her eyes, canting her head in thought. Justino knew this look, and it made the back of his head throb. Defendants in Judge Medina’s courtroom all knew they were doomed if she closed her eyes and turned her head just so.
“What?” Justino said from his spot on the uncomfortable hotel couch. “What have you found?”
Angelica rose from her chair, her head still canted, one eye half closed. Justino started to speak again but she held up her hand to shush him.
She shrugged the dressing gown back over her shoulders. Justino couldn’t help but notice her fingers trembled as she knotted the cord. He’d never seen her kill someone before, certainly not people in her own employ. It made sense that she would be a little shaky after that.
“I am merely exhausted,” she said. “We should get some rest before returning to the camp.”
“But you found something?” Justino pressed. “Is it a problem with the ransom?”
Angelica sighed, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Eva Turcott is a problem,” she said. “I’d hoped to keep everyone alive for a few days in case we needed them, but I think we need to go ahead and have Jelly take care of her.”
Justino’s mouth fell open. He’d hoped there would be some way out of this madness, some way that didn’t leave a half dozen unmarked graves in the back of his cattle pasture. “Why so soon?”
“Eva is not who we thought she was,” Angelica said. She picked up her mobile from the desk. “The sooner Jelly makes her disappear the better.”